My dog wants to run off into the lit trees,
my 87-year-old mother wants to live on.
To a hungry goldfinch, want is huge—
and as tiny as a thistle seed. I wanted to visit
the hidden smallpox cemetery in Provincetown again,
so in fall I drove, then hiked through woods,
then slipped and slid down a steep hill
to kneel at these little numbered marble slabs.
I have been found wanting. I have been left
wanting. My wants have been distilled.
Fourteen souls carried off in outbreaks—
I longed to find this place, all the wanting
buried here. This plush dark moss, these whole
and broken stones. My wants are small like this.
